


Who made you King?

by behindbucky



Series: Running through the Back Brain (Welcome to the Future) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Steve Rogers is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindbucky/pseuds/behindbucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, or so you were told as you burnt on a crashing wreck of metal.</p><p>Some days you think maybe that is all you’ll ever be, a burning, crashing wreck of metal and bones and blood. So much blood.</p><p>Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. One thing you are certain of is that you are far too old for this shit.</p><p>--</p><p>For the prompt: “Who made you king of the castle?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who made you King?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for Hatterwithaheart over on tumblr :)  
> You can send me prompts on here or on my tumblr: http://this-ones-for-the-freaks.tumblr.com/ask  
> (If anyone wants to tell me how to link to shit properly in this box please do!!)

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, or so you were told as you burnt on a crashing wreck of metal.

Some days you think maybe that is all you’ll ever be, a burning, crashing wreck of metal and bones and blood. So much blood.

For seventy years you were an asset. The Asset. You had a job, a role, a mission. You were a puppet, a play thing and a toy, the ghost of a soldier. Nothing.

Recently, you are becoming something again. Steve - you know him, sometimes - calls you ‘Buck.’ Says you used to like it. You think it’s fitting.

      **Buck;**

**[Noun: A male animal.**  
**Adjective (US Informal): Lowest of a particular military rank.**  
**Verb: To oppose, resist.]**

_(When you told Steve this thought, once, he’d turned, lips tight together, and left. You waited, unsure. He returned with a dictionary. “That’s not all it means, Buck. Look here.”_  
**[Noun (Archaic): A fashionable and spirited young man.]**  
You don’t remember. Although, from the way Steve talks, you think it could be true.)

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. One thing you are certain of is that you are far too old for this shit.

To the left of you on the ratty, stained, threadbare motel sofa (it’s so soft you think you might fall through it) is Steve. He’s not wearing a shirt because it got torn on a tree earlier and every now and again your eyes drift to those tanned unnatural abs, fitting of a greek adonis (but not Steve?). Somewhere in the back of your brain, niggeling away, screams that attraction is detrimental to the mission. _(No. There is no mission. No.)_

To the right is Natasha. (You know her, too, by another name, in another time). They are fighting. No, not fighting, Bickering. Fighting involves weapons and raised voices, offensive manoeuvres and orders. This involves childish faces, a pizza menu and the occasional peanut flicked in Steve’s nostril.

“Anchovies? Nope, no-way.”

“He used to like-“

“Steve, no-one likes anchovies. No-one.”

“I like them…” Steve mutters and looks away. You wonder why small fish are such a thing to be ashamed of.

“Just get him a meat feast or something. Men like that sort of thing I’m told.”

“I don’t know Nat, that’s a lot of meat… At least he can pick bits off the others if he doesn’t like it”

“Okay, so just Pepperoni? Or a vegetarian one? Spinach is good for the blood. Although he’d have to eat a hell of a lot just for it to—”

“Stop. I don’t see why we can’t just get him to choose, hasn’t he had long enough of people making decisions for him?”

“Because yesterday when I asked if he wanted soda or water he stared at me for nearly five minutes before reeling off the nutritional properties of Fanta verses carbon free mineral water. He’s clearly not up for the complex pizza choosing just yet.”

“Well I think we should at least give him the chance.”

“If you want to handle full-scale toddler assassin meltdown, be my guest.”

Steve looks away again, although his lips are tight and he’s breathing is increased by 19% though the nasal passageway. You think maybe this is what it means to be angry.

Although when he looks back, his eyes glisten with a clear film of moisture. Perhaps it’s time to re-asses emotional traits.

“Fine. We’ll get two margaritas, a chicken supreme, ham and mushroom with sausage on half, garlic bread and…and a Ham and Pineapple. Happy?”

“Very.”

It’s become apparent, throughout this conversation that you are the third party they’re ordering for and, perhaps it’s the moisture in Steve’s eyes, or Natalia’s smug tone, but something in you wants to resist it. It bubbles through you, rushing against your will from the recesses of the mind, surging down electrical neurones.

“Who made you king’ve the castle?”

It’s muttered but Steve, with his 53% above average hearing, turns anyway, jaw dropped low making some unattractive ‘hungh’ noise. He stares and you stare back. On the other side you think Natasha might be laughing behind her cautious eyes. But you’re not paying attention, you’re mind is reeling, playing catchup with years of memories you though must have been fried away by so many machines.

~~

Steve, five at the time, sings the nursery rhyme his Ma taught him earlier that day, standing proud as anything on the crumbling brick wall and you - seven years old, already stronger and more durable than Steve - climb up behind him and push.

“Who made you the king’ve the castle, huh”

Course, Steve’s got bruised up knees and you get a stern word from Mrs Rogers about how Steve ain’t so big and gets sick a lot. It’s okay though because a wide toothless grin and Steve’s own strict command - _“You mustn’t never treat me different Buck, okay? Promise? Ma says I can’t keep up with you boys, but I can. She just cares too much sometimes.”_ \- says we’re still friends.

It’s the middle of summer, in the next flash of memory, and Steve’s tugging on your sleeve as you pull on your shoes.

“C’mon Buck we’re going shooting round the back of the dock house.”

Steve’s hopeless, but you’ll line up the empty bottles left from last night along the wall anyway and spend all day tryin’ to knock ‘em down. You want it just as much as he does, but that doesn’t mean you won’t miss on an opportunity to wind Stevie up, anyway. So you say it again.

“How come your always king of the castle? Don’t I get to choose sometime?”

And then it becomes a thing.

When Steve decides the big school project without consulting you, when he pushes you in the river then stands on the bank and laughs (until you shake yourself like a dog and soak him too), when he claims your bed and makes you sleep on the floor (you would’a let him sleep there anyway), when says he’ll go first on the death-wire towards a HYDRA train. Anywhere, anytime, you can, you say it. And always, always he’ll laugh back at you and carry on anyway.

~~

Back in the present, as the onslaught of memory recedes, you realise Steve and Natasha (although she is more subtle than Steve, admittedly) are staring, still.

You want them to stop. This is not the appropriate response to your remark.

You say it again.

And this time, slowly, strained and wet, as if he were doing it with cheese wire against his neck, and yet unmistakably, Steve laughs. And then reaches for the phone, regardless.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback on my work - whether it's just to point out spelling mistakes or something - is always highly welcome and I'm not above bribing you with virtual brownies at this point. :)


End file.
